Intellectually, she knew that wasn’t likely. The sheer number of Drasin that had flooded the scanners of Liberty Station made it entirely possible that the Earth was nothing but a cooling chunk of rock slowly breaking apart in space. It had been thirty days already, a full month during which she and her people could only pray that their loved ones and their home had hung on.

The Odyssey’s report on the effects of a Drasin assault were starkly clear, however. From day one to the end of a world could be counted in days, not weeks.

The Priminae flatly refused to send anyone back to scan the system. It was clear that their ranks were terrified of the sheer number of aliens that had swarmed the Earth, and she couldn’t honestly blame them.

She’d dispatched the Enterprise herself a little over two weeks earlier, but they hadn’t reported back yet, so for the moment she and her people could only throw themselves into their work.

Gracen’s heels clicked on the ceramic flooring as she walked through the corridors of the Forge, stepping into the large viewing area that overlooked the construction slips.

So this is what treason buys, I suppose, Gracen thought as she looked through the clear ports and over what rested beyond.

It was held in place by magnetic tractors, one and a half kilometers of flat steel blue. The color was a result of the chemical composition of her ceramic armor, but Gracen liked it. The Odysseus was one mean-looking ship, considering that her primary builders were pacifists to an almost obscene degree.

She wasn’t the only ship in the slips, and of the fourteen currently being constructed, six were earmarked for Gracen and her people. That was six ships, armed to the teeth, and equipped with the best weapons and technology of two civilizations.

She hoped to hell it was going to be enough and not just another case of too little, too late.

Admiral Rael Tanner had spent much of the last few cycles in a fog. Since hearing of the fate of the Odyssey, nothing had quite felt the same.

He suspected that it was much the same for many of his people, since the Terran ship had brought them the light of hope during their darkest time. But few others knew Captain Weston, and that was probably why Rael felt that he’d lost something personal—a bit more, really. Perhaps it was just his hubris in thinking that, but that was the way he felt.

The Elder Council had locked down his fleet, largely keeping him from doing his duty in the aftermath of the loss of the Terran homeworld. Nothing but escort missions between colonial systems. No scouts, no raids, nothing.

It was insanity, but he was locked down by the council and left with nothing to do but sit, stew, and wonder at what might have been.